


rosary

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 14:32:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8804566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: You’ve missed this, the smell of salt in the air.





	

You’ve missed this, the smell of salt in the air, realer now somehow when you’re surrounded by the familiar ships at dock instead of the slick yachts on the LA marina. You’ve missed the cracks on the pavement and the grubby steel grey of the railings, and the way you know the order of the stores down this street by heart. You’ve missed the cold kissing the tips of your ears, and the liverbirds on the rooftops, their wings stiff against the hard blue edge of the sky. 

 

-

You knew all that before you came home. You couldn’t stop turning it over in your mind, the truth and depth of your missing. Alex in the bathroom helping out by putting in a new toothbrush with your wash kit. You in the bedroom refolding the same three shirts you can’t decide whether to pack or leave behind. You feel this missing like an abstract shape, one that used to be part of you, or made up part of you, perhaps, but is now gone. It’s difficult to envision, especially since you can’t even hold fractions right in your mind to help Lexie with homework. That used to bother you, but not very much. You wonder why you would worry at it again, now. After. 

 

-

The best mathematicians in the world couldn’t do what you did, unthinkingly. Couldn’t replicate the arc of the ball as it soared over the wall and into the net. 

 

-

You will miss this, the last corner, the last time you lace up your boots to play a professional game, the crowds blurring as you wheel away with your fists clenched in triumph. You will miss this, breathing in the heavy, sodden air, your lungs aching and your knees on fire and your kit stained with grass. You will miss this,  _ Steven Gerrard Gerrard, he’s big and he’s fucking hard-  _

 

-

 

Que sera, sera. 

 

-

 

You’re uncertain of everything when you start reading all the accolades that come pouring in to your phone, your mailbox. It was the right thing to do, because you’re old, and you’re tired, and you missed home. But it didn’t feel like the right thing- so much of the time it doesn’t feel like the right thing to do. 

So it’s unsurprising, then, that you’re only certain of this when you finally go home. The only thing you know is you can’t leave. 

You can’t leave now, not again, never again. 

 

-

You go to Anfield for the game. You’ve told yourself to be prepared in a hundred different ways, but still your footsteps quicken, eager, towards the main gates. Your body betrays you by feeling totally at ease in this sea of red, even though you’re bracing for that crash of melancholy that must come when you see the new team. 

It’s hardly new at all now. Time moves fast in football. Still they’ve healed well, and you know you’re not flattering yourself when you remember that gap you left in their ranks when you left. Like a pulled tooth. You wonder if they ran over and over the space that you occupied and missed you, felt your phantom presence in their midst, if the corner looked a little emptier before Jordan or Milner stepped up. 

Still. They ran together now, seamless and beautiful. Occasionally ragged when someone fumbles a pass, but recovering, always regrouping, their names and numbers blurring. They’ve become a team. You find that you still have enough in yourself, in your aching legs that has only been supporting your weight for half an hour, to be secretly, painfully envious. 

The fire doesn’t quite burn you the same. You want the taste of blood back in your mouth, gold and glitter from the stadium lights staining your skin, want to push the aches and pains to the back of your mind where they belong and instead throw yourself headlong into that tackle. 

You want-you want. Instead you sit down and try to suppress a wince. You don’t close your hungry eyes, because this last pain you cannot give up.

  
  
  


-

 

“So.” Jurgen Klopp looks at you with a mix of amusement and something else. You don’t know what that is, could be pity, or respect, or maybe even understanding. You knew he played once, with Mainz. You knew he went on to coach that team.

“So,” you echo back, awkwardly. You don’t know whether to smile or not. You feel like you need to prove yourself, but knowing also that you couldn’t possibly need to, because you haven’t asked him for anything. You wonder if just being here, standing in front of Klopp’s desk in his office, meant you were asking for something. It makes you bristle a little, on the inside. 

He had no qualms about smiling. His teeth were very large and his nose crinkled when he grinned like that. He stands up and puts a hand on your shoulder, and it was warm. 

“There is always a place for you, Steven,” he says, still smiling, undoubtedly serious. 

You know you haven’t asked for anything, but it still felt like he’d given it to you, anyway. 

 

-

 

You go alone to Anfield, right before the match on Saturday. The grass is exactly the same as you remember. The goalposts and the seats. They’ve taken down the stairs in the tunnel, and they’ve built up the new stand. 

You stand by the touchline and try hard to stop remembering, but the waves keep coming. And everything is the same, and not the same, and you want to go out there by the center circle and sink to your knees. 

But you don’t. You just stand, steady on your aching legs, and you’re home. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Steven gerrard gerrard is sung to the tune of que sera sera. "this last pain" is actually a direct reference to "This pain is all i have left of them" which is from Westworld and tbh i changed the wording and the link isn't as clear anymore but the sentiment is still there. This fic was supposed to be gerlonso, but then i forgot about xabi. So. a lot of the imagery is actually reworked from past stevie-leaving fics, particularly the "sang in my chains" one, because this is...a coda? i think. my last self indulgence. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading <3


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